


Lies the Stars Told Us

by vexmybones



Category: Captain America (Movies), Greek and Roman Mythology, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hades/Persephone - Freeform, I Tried, I'm Bad At Tagging, Just read the thing!, M/M, Not Beta Read, Second generation Olympians?, Sneaky Gods, Suicidal Thoughts, Twisted Gods, What Was I Thinking?, Yep I like that.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:11:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexmybones/pseuds/vexmybones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Gods and Fates conspire none seeking solace will find it. Bonds will be broken, trust shall be lost, and only he that obtains the Sun will flourish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies the Stars Told Us

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is almost a week late, but it's here nonetheless! I have a thing for mythology (read: I'm a huge geek) and this happened due to some late night brainstorming and watching one too many myth-y movies. So, read at your own risk!
> 
> \- I marked it as explicit just to be safe, but there's not a whole lot of smut. As for violence, nothing more than a mentioned bullet graze. If it needs to be tagged, lemme know, yeah?
> 
> \- Lastly, this is entirely for my Poppet. She's my partner in crime and fuels my imagination with her amazingness. Doll, I hope you like it! <3

 

 

 

‘I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home.

I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand.

I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.’

– Andrea Gibson

 

*

 

When little Steven Grant Rogers was born it wasn’t some grand occasion. There was no anxious father pacing the waiting room with a celebratory cigar tucked safely in his breast pocket. Excited grandparents and family were absent—because there weren’t any. Only his mother cried along with her son when he found his lungs for the first time, and his wasn’t a strong wail, no, it was strained, his tiny body fighting to thrive even at the beginning.

The first time Sarah Rogers gazed down through teary and tired eyes at her newborn she wasn’t surprised to see those wide baby-blues staring right back at her. Only minutes old and she knew that he was special, that he would rise and fall like a coin that’s flicked into the air, spinning, spinning, and falling. And whether or not he landed with his heart in tact, well, that wasn’t up to her. She vowed on that day to do whatever was within her power to protect this gift she’d been given.

The nurses took him from her arms after she was tended to and swept him out of the room and with a sigh she let her eyes shut for just a second. On the verge of drifting off, her body heavy with exhaustion, she pushed the visions dancing behind her lids to the back of her mind and was so focused on her task that she’d missed the sound of her door being pushed open. Footfalls too soft for any mortal to hear stepped into the room and crept to the side of Sarah’s bed. Her eyes only opened when a hand rested heavily on her forearm.

Her lids popped open and it was a struggle to fight down the rising panic that the face hovering above her invoked. The hand grasping her flesh sent small shocks of electricity into her muscles and paralyzed her to her bed and she felt his smirk just as much as she saw it. His voice was still the same deep timbre that resonated in her very bones and had been one of the things that had damned her from the beginning.

“Sarah dear, our boy is lovely… I’m so proud of you.”

Voice filled with trepidation and anger she managed to speak instead of spitting in his face like she wanted to do. “He is _my_ son and you’re not going near him.”

“Oh but you’re wrong. I won’t take him today, no, but I’ll come for him when he’s old enough. You know you can’t stop me.” He leaned in and brushed the tip of his nose over the apple of her cheek and she swallowed back the bile rising in her throat.

“I’ll hide him, you’ll never find him.”

“Now, now there’s no need for threats. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to _you_ would we?” A thread of menace slips into his tone and Sarah’s heart skips pitifully in terror.

“You wouldn’t, he’d hate you for it.”

“Sadly you do have a point. So here’s the deal, darling. I’m going to let you raise him however you wish. Run with him if you think you can, but I promise you I will find him when the time comes. And then it won’t matter because he’ll be prime for corrupting. You’ll see, my sweet Sarah.”

“Go to Hell, Alexander.” Her teeth grind as the hold on her arm is tightened just this side of painful before all at once the pressure is released as he lets go of her.

“It’s too dark there... You know,” the blonde’s laugh is like a curl of smoke that twines around her soul as he steps away from her side with a crooked and sinister grin. “I prefer the clouds. See you soon, my dear.” He doesn’t bother using the door on his way out, instead blinking out of existence; there one second and gone the next.

Sarah’s body trembles as she drags air into her lungs, her limbs going limp like a marionette that’s had her strings severed. She curses the day that she gave into her ‘calling’ and the moment she’d met Alexander Pierce. She knew that Fate was fickle but she wasn’t supposed to be this involved with higher-ups. Her mother would roll over in her grave if she could see her now. And now she was going to spend the rest of her life hiding her son from his father. In that moment she prays to the God that her mother worshipped so passionately and asks for help. It’s all she can do.

 

*

 

The first years of Steve’s life are normal. He doesn’t ask why he doesn’t have a father like the kids in his grade because he knows nothing other than his mother. Why would he want for something when he has her? He’s a quiet but curious child always asking Sarah questions, yet silent in the presence of strangers. Steve is a small boy, easily overlooked and burdened with a laundry list of health problems. Sarah is secretly glad that he’s too awkward to make friends or stand out among the other kids his age. It keeps him safe and makes it easier for her to sleep at night. She raises him up in church, taking him to hear the preacher that she sat under when she was young. She teaches him to be a good person like her mother taught her, like she never was.

When Steve is eleven he nearly gives Sarah a heart attack.

She’d been preparing dinner, still in her nurse’s uniform when a loud pounding had sounded on the front door of their tiny house. Dropping the ladle into the pot of soup, she’d rushed to the front of the house and threw the door open. And there was little Steven with a bloodied lip, a cut over his quickly swelling eye, and his right arm held close to his chest. Her eyes sweep from his injuries to the sight of the older boy that’s got an arm wrapped around Steve’s waist, her son’s bony arm slung around his neck. She feels something in her stomach shift and she knows without touching him that he’s going to play a part in her boy’s destiny. She can feel it in her bones and it scares her something fierce.

“Are you Mrs. Rogers?”

“It’s just Sarah. Lord, Steven, what have you gotten into this time?! Here, get him inside.” She steps back and lets the boy pull her hobbling son into the house and pushes her worries aside in favor of patching Steve up.

“’S okay, Ma. I got in a good punch or two.”

“Yeah, he batted at ‘em like a riled kitten.”

Sarah swallows thickly and brushes past the other boy to sit down next to Steve on their small, worn couch. She checks him over with a nurse’s eye and deems him a little battered but nonetheless alright. After she’s finished patching him up she turns to the dark haired boy and holds out a hand.

“Thank you for bringing him home…” she trails off not having gotten his name in the chaos that her son insisted creating for himself. He takes her hand, his grip surprisingly strong for a kid and offers her a polite smile.

“James Barnes, Ma’am, and you’re welcome. I couldn’t just leave him there to fend for himself. Those were some big bullies and they usually don’t stop until an adult finds ‘em.”

“Well, I’m glad you intervened, then. You should stay and have supper with us as thanks for saving Steve’s rear end!”

“Aw, Ma, I’m fine. I didn’t need him, I had them!”

“Enough, Steven, go wash up for dinner. You too, James, I won’t take no for an answer.”

After both boys leave the living room, Sarah hangs her head and says a prayer, not entirely sure it should be one of thanks or guidance. When James had grasped her hand she’d seen things, felt the cold, the heat, and the agony. She’d seen those golden shears and hands that she recognized far too well molding the very clay of James’ soul; it terrified her. She wasn’t sure what any of it meant, she was never positive of her visions, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that that boy would be the ruin of her son.

Everything that _they_ touched crumbled to ash, eventually.

That night the three of them eat and converse easily and she smiles at the way that Steve blooms under James’ attention. Maybe her vision was wrong. (Even though she knows it wasn’t.) Maybe that thread of light, of good inside of her son will be enough to save him, save them both. She can only hope now.

 

*

 

Steve and Bucky become fast friends, Bucky claiming that Steve needed him around otherwise who would pull his ass out of the mud? Steve begrudgingly admits that it’s an alright excuse but neither of them miss the way that Steve’s gaze lingers just a second too long on Bucky’s face. Even at a young age there’s something that draws them together like magnets and they don’t question it, instead they cherish it. Whether it’s in the way Bucky slings his arm over Steve’s skinny shoulders and the smaller boy doesn’t shrug him off, or it’s in the way that Steve thinks he gets away with those lingering glances, no one dares come between them.

James (“Bucky’ I like that. You sound like a pirate. Behold the dreaded pirate Buck!” “You’re a dweeb, Stevie.”) Buchanan Barnes is an orphan. He was dropped off on the orphanage’s front stoop and the nuns took him in. When he was four the Barnes family came looking and took him home. Until then he didn’t have a name, or that’s the story he tells, but he’s proud to be a Barnes now. His little sister Rebecca is the apple of his eye and his best friend Steve is his right hand man. _(“On your left, Cap, that’s where you’ll always find me.” “Now who’s the dweeb, Buck?”)_

They’re inseparable from the moment that Bucky left Steve’s house the night he dragged the blond home when he was twelve. Throughout the years they only grow closer and Sarah watches with nervous acceptance as this tornado of a boy sweeps her son off his feet and out of fights, off to ballgames, and further away from her. She’d never been overbearing when it came to Steve but the older he got with his ever present shadow, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was somehow Alexander’s plan all along. She shudders to think that he had managed to taint her life even further.

When Sarah lies on her deathbed in the same hospital where she’d had Steve and worked for years just to keep food on their table, she prays her last prayer. Steve sits in a chair next to her bed, his fingers lack with sleep where they curl over her own now frail hand and she can’t help but to smile. Even as sick as Steve stayed he always found a way to take care of her. She was sad to be leaving but glad at the same time that he could finally _live_. She prays then that his father never finds him and by some twist that James will protect him. Her eyes list to the window where Steve’s shadow sits, a look of pain and sadness gracing his handsome features. Noticing her movement he walks to her other side and takes her hand in his strong grip, so sure and warm against her cold skin.

Her voice is a whisper, more from the cancer that’s eaten her up from the inside out than to keep from waking Steve.

“Look after him, James… Protect him for me. Love him just like you always have…”

She watches his eyes fill with tears that threaten to escape and she squeezes his hand with her remaining strength until he replies with a nod, a single dip of his head and a choked; “I promise, Miss Sarah.” Giving him a small smile that she manages to muster, her head lulls back to the left and she trains her blurry gaze on Steve. As she closes her eyes she whispers an “I love you.” to her son and lets go of consciousness. Sarah Rogers falls asleep with two boys by her bedside and a smile on her lips. She doesn’t wake up again.

 

*

 

When Steve wakes up it’s to a different world, one with lies, faces he doesn’t recognize, and seventy years missing. Despite his words to Fury, his dance with Peggy hadn’t been the thing that he’d first missed. He feels the loss of Bucky all over again and nearly destroys (another) SHIELD holding cell in his grief, his self loathing. He was supposed to have died and been with his best friend, not frozen.

After Steve’s mother died his entire world had been narrowed down to Bucky. ( _As if it weren’t always that way._ ) He was Steve’s rock, saving him from himself. They moved in together soon as Bucky could get a steady job and never looked back. Then the war had happened and torn them apart. Steve changed, Bucky changed, they reunited and they still clung to their bond the only way they knew how. Even in the trenches and with bullets flying past their heads, they had each other.

Watching Bucky fall from that train had ripped Steve’s heart right down the middle, leaving him with nothing to lose and a fierce determination to join his other half wherever Bucky had ended up, Steve didn’t care of the place. And he had thought that he’d succeeded only to wake up seventy years in the future and lost, feeling like he had been hollowed out. He didn’t pray like his Ma taught him, instead he cursed everything and beat the shit out of punching bags, keeping to himself. Did he still have his morals? Yes. Did he _want_ to fight the good fight without his ‘shadow’ on his left? Hell no. But _did_ he fight when the call came to protect and serve? Of course, just like the good little soldier he was.

Steve made a begrudging friend out of Howard’s son, enjoyed Thor’s goodwill, and bantered with the other Avengers. Soon he found himself falling into a routine working for SHIELD and doing missions with Natasha. He wasn’t happy, not even remotely, but there was nothing short of shooting himself in the head that would help him. And wouldn’t that be a headline? America’s national icon dies from a self-inflicted GSW. He’d burn in Hell, but wasn’t he already there? In his mind he was.

He watched Nick Fury get shot down in his own living room and he wouldn’t know until days later that his world was about to be turned upside down, again. The second he jerked the mask off of the Winter Soldier’s face and he flipped out of a crouch to face him, Steve’s heart stupidly pumped hope into his veins. And the words; “Who the hell is Bucky?” quickly sent terror chasing that hope, turning it black and heavy as lead when he fell to his knees letting HYDRA take him.

Fighting Bucky as the Winter Soldier was like fighting his own heart. Every punch that connected, every kick that landed, each bone broken, he felt it all. And even after his tortured best friend shot him for what should have been the final time, Steve couldn’t stop trying to make him _see_ him. When all of his efforts failed and he found himself blanketed by a body he once knew almost as well as his own, eyes a stormy grey, oh-so confused and spitting hatred down at him, Steve knew he was finally going to get to die. And those words he spoke to Bucky, he meant them, always had, and was glad that if he was going down that it was by Bucky’s hand. It was a sort of sick balance and it felt right.

 

*

 

He was a ghost story, the Asset, a weapon crafted to eradicate problems that arose. Nothing more. His handlers fed him when necessary, sedated him when he was to sleep, and he was never alone. Emotions were forbidden, left out of his programming and for good reason. He preferred to keep them at bay if they ever crept up on him while he was out of Cryo. If he spoke of them he’d get the chair sooner than necessary. He despised the chair and its black halo.

But then came the mission that would change everything.

Pierce _(Why did he look familiar? How’d he get into the room? Why am I drawn to him?)_ seemed very passionate about him finishing his mission, taking out the one they called ‘Captain America’. ( _Why can he hear his own voice tired but happy saying that title in victory?)_ He doesn’t want to be wiped, he should have kept his mouth shut, but there were so many questions that he _shouldn’t_ have. Why won’t they tell him who that man was? He doesn’t understand why Pierce is so adamant about it when he looks like him. ( _Why does he look like the man on the bridge?)_

The currents of electricity that raze his nerves and scorch his mind into a blank slate leave him questionless and ready for battle. But little does he know that his mission will take a turn and leave him with more questions than he had before the wipe. And it will give him a new mission, only this time he will have no one to answer to.

When he pulls the man from the river, he doesn’t know why he does it. He makes sure that the mission is breathing and staggers off with the sounds of sirens nearing. His fight or flight instinct has been all but burnt away, he has no fight in him anymore and so he runs. He steals a vehicle and heads to the nearest safe house finding it abandoned and empty of any trace of his handlers. With survival now the only thing he can (needs) to think about, he strips out of his gear and suits up in civilian clothes. It’s easy to set his fractured arm, the pain making him grit his teeth as he tends to his other wounds. He’s had worse, he can handle it.

In less than an hour he’s cleaning out a cache of weapons and moving on to the next place. For a week he steals food to ease the ache of hunger, steals money in the dead of night when the civilians are sleeping, and never stays in one place for more than eight hours. He doesn’t sleep for the first three days and when he finally curls up in a ball in a vacant warehouse on the outskirts of the city, he dreams of the mission, of Pierce, of the chair. He wakes screaming and his metal hand clasped around the handle of his knife. Sleep becomes the last thing he worries about. At the two week mark, he watches the news from the back of a diner and doesn’t understand why he feels relief when they say that the man on the bridge was in stable condition. Anger rises in him that he can’t understand his own broken mind and he has to leave before his carefully constructed control snaps and he draws attention to himself.

He goes to the museum exhibit three days later. The name he reads, the reels that he watches, they only add to his confusion. He goes completely off the grid after that.

 

*

 

For close to six months Steve and Sam follow leads that take them to dead end after dead end. They take out at least eight HYDRA cells around the US and Europe single handedly. Steve sleeps when Sam does, eats when food is put in front of him, and is constantly moving. He knows that he’s running Sam ragged searching for a ghost, but he just can’t let Bucky go, not after he knows he’s out there and alone. The only reason he stops searching is when Sam takes a shot in the thigh from a HYDRA agent. It just pierces his outer thigh and he tries to convince Steve that he’s fine when he gets stitched up in a hospital just outside of France. But Steve knows that it’s time to pack it in and go back to the states, so that’s what they do. He tries not to, but he can’t really stop it; Steve shuts down when they end up in New York and moving into Stark’s tower.

Despite his attempts to be his old self, it’s useless. Tony’s snark, Natasha’s dry wit when she returns from her own self discovery trip, Banner’s quiet conversation, Sam’s jokes, nothing reaches him anymore. He acclimates to his surroundings again, being in New York not really helping with his pity parties. He gets in the habit of taking walks, getting lost down streets that no one would be smart enough to visit even in broad daylight. If he looks for grey eyes and the glint of metal on every person he passes, well, he may have called off the search for Bucky but he can’t, he _won’t_ stop.

He wakes up in a cold sweat one night in late September, his heart pounding and the sound of gunshots ricocheting around inside his head along with Bucky’s scream as he fell from the train. Steve kicks the sheet away from where it’s twisted around his legs and slips from his bed. He goes to the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face to clear his head before emptying his bladder. After washing his hands he strips out of his sweaty clothes and changes into jeans, a T-shirt, a zip-up hoodie, and his running shoes. Grabbing his wallet, keys, and a bottle of water he makes his way quietly to the private elevator. Despite it being half past one in the morning, Steve exits the tower and sets off to outrun his demons.

Still preoccupied by the remains of his dream, Steve never sees it coming. He doesn’t get a tingle down his spine or any sixth sense that he’s being followed. The needle slides precisely into his neck and whatever it is must be strong because it’s enough to take him down and it does so, quickly. The last thing he sees before it goes black is stringy dark hair hovering over him and the streetlight glinting off of an uncovered metal hand as it reaches out to him.

Steve doesn’t know how long he’s out but when he swims his way up out of the blackness of oblivion and his eyes blink slowly open, he feels like he’s been asleep for days. His limbs move sluggishly as he takes stock of his body, finding it weak but unharmed. Then he gets a good look at his surroundings. The bed Steve’s on is huge, the wood of the frame dark and shinning in the low light that streams from a lamp on a side-table. Matter of fact all of the furnishings in the room look to be made of the same wood, with sloping curves that are prominently masculine. The duvet that he’s lying atop of is a dark orange/red color that reminds him of the leaves in autumn when he and Bucky used to sneak off into the woods to play. Speaking of, Steve lets his eyes roam further around the room until his gaze rests on the man sitting in a high-backed chair in the corner of the strange bedroom, all but completely shrouded in shadows where the light doesn’t quite reach.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is a hoarse whisper and he clears his throat as he manages to push himself up into a sitting position. He feels his strength coming back like drinking hot chocolate on a cold morning, his mind and veins warming with awareness.

“Hiya, Stevie.”

The blond’s eyes widen at the recognition that he had longed for in his friend’s voice.

“You… You remembered?” He doesn’t ask where he is or how long he’s been out, he doesn’t care.

“Too much.” Bucky’s tone isn’t strained or broken like Steve would have imagined it being, instead it’s almost soft like he’s just answering Steve’s inquiry about the weather.

“How? It’s been months and I searched but you’d disappeared… Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Steve doesn’t push for more information when Bucky deliberately evades filling in those blanks for him. He blows out a breath and drags air into his lungs like he’s starving for it, a weight that had been settled onto his shoulders giving way and allowing him to. Turning, he scoots to the edge of the bed and lets his feet swing down and touch the carpet. He watches Bucky as the other man stands with deceptive grace as he stretches like he’s totally at ease. Steve doesn’t buy it for a second, but God, it’s a beautiful sight.

“You need a shower,” Bucky points with a silver finger towards a door Steve hadn’t noticed on the other side of an antique wardrobe. “And there are clean clothes in your size in the drawers. Come find the kitchen when you’re finished.” Steve just nods because the tone of his friend’s voice holds no room for objection and he knows an order when he hears one. He’s happy but he’s not suicidal. At least not now.

 

*

 

The en-suite bathroom is twice the size of his back at Stark’s and he pauses to note that all of the toiletries are brand new. Steve makes quick work of the shower, his mind too occupied to fully enjoy the jets in the walk-in stall that looks like some kind of marble. The clothes he finds are just like Bucky said and in his size. He doesn’t stop to wonder the how, leaving all of those questions for later. Once he’s dressed, he pads on bare feet out into the hall and stops. The house they’re in must be an old Victorian from the looks of the crown molding and the well cared for wooden floorboards. He follows the hall past two other closed doors and then descends down a curving staircase to the first floor of the sprawling house.

Finding the kitchen is easy, it’s situated in the back of the house and it’s the only room with lights on. Bucky’s back stiffens as he enters. He’s standing at the stove flipping something that makes Steve’s stomach growl hungrily and he closes his eyes and inhales deeply before slipping onto a stool that butts up against an island where copper pots hang above it like decoration.

“Bacon?”

“And sausage. You still like your eggs scrambled?”

“Of course, you mess them up any other way.”

“Be nice or I’ll spit in ‘em.”

Steve swallows hard at the Brooklyn twang that keeps creeping into Bucky’s voice. He wants to ignore everything that might set off some trigger the man has, but he can’t keep his mouth shut anymore. He wants answers.

“Where are we, Bucky? And how long was I out? You know they’re gonna be looking for me...” He watches as Bucky’s frame goes still, his head dropping forward as his shoulders rise as if to steel himself for the conversation. He lays the spatula he’d been using down, turns the burner off, and then turns around. His face is hard, eyes trained intently on Steve when he speaks with a quiet voice.

“Not now. Don’t ask again.” His jaw works and the mechanics in his left arm whirl as his fingers curl into a fist. When he speaks again Bucky’s voice has an edge of what Steve wants to think is pleading, like he’s afraid that Steve will act out of turn and cause him to do something he doesn’t want to. “Eat first, interrogate later, alright?”

“Okay, Buck, sounds fine.”

The smile that tries to pull the corner of Bucky’s mouth up before he turns back to the stove is so small that Steve thinks he imagined it. It doesn’t look like his old Bucky, doesn’t fit right on his face, it’s not bright and impish anymore. But he’ll take it. Steve takes a minute to let his gaze roam over Bucky and his heart hammers frantically in his chest because he’s _finally_ there. And apparently he’d find out where ‘there’ was later.

Less than ten minutes later there’s enough food to feed four people covering the island and Bucky is settling onto a stool to his right. Steve’s stomach demands to be filled so he shovels it in all the while casting side glances at his best friend. They don’t speak and Steve wouldn’t exactly label it as comfortable, but it’s… nice. When he’s too full to eat another bite he leans back and pats his stomach with a groan earning an amused and arched eyebrow from Bucky.

“Got any room left for dessert?”

“You don’t bake…”

“Never claimed to.” Bucky pushes his own empty plate aside and gets off his stool. Steve watches as he moves towards the fridge, opening it and bending down to pull a covered plate out before ferrying it back to the island. Sitting the plate down he slides his seat closer to Steve’s and reclaims his position completely ignoring the perplexed expression painted across the blond’s features. When he unwraps the plate there are a dozen or so cookies resting on the silver tray. They don’t look like anything special, appear to have bits of fruit or something in them and Steve is worried he’s expected to actually eat them. (He wasn’t kidding when he said Bucky didn’t bake, he was horrible at it. Or used to be, anyway.)

“They won’t bite you.” As if to prove his point, Bucky picks one up and takes a bite out of it with a shrug. “They’re good, found the recipe in an old cookbook.”

He mimes Bucky’s shrug and reaches out grabbing one and finding that they aren’t actually all that bad when he bites into the soft cookie. He hums in his throat as the sugary, tart flavor bursts onto his tongue. Glancing at the other man he arches a brow at Bucky’s intense gaze and is met with a small smile as he scoots the plate closer to Steve.

“What’s in these? They actually aren’t half-bad.” Steve asks as despite his full stomach he picks up a second right after finishing the first.

“Oatmeal, raisins, and pomegranates… Odd mix but they’re good, yeah?”

Steve nods in agreement and seeming satisfied Bucky gets up to clean up, waving a hand when Steve goes to get up too, telling him to eat his cookies. He doesn’t notice that Bucky only had one and he eats three in a half before he feels like he’s about to pop. Wrapping the rest up he puts them back in the fridge and turns back to where Bucky is just putting away the last clean dish. The silence is loud and awkwardness is easing into the room to fill the air between them. Back before the war, after supper they’d either bundle up on their hand-me-down couch to spend the remaining hours before bed reading or listening to their meager record collection. Or Bucky would drag him out to dance with a dame that would look over him all night, quite literally. Steve doesn’t know what to do in this new era, not with this version of his best friend.

Bucky takes a deep breath and with a barely perceptible nod walks past Steve and towards the hall. Steve follows him like a lost puppy without question. He takes them to a sitting room that looks like it hasn’t been touched in years, except there isn’t a spec of dust to be seen and the bookshelves that line the back wall appear to be in good condition. He wonders whose house they’re in, where they are, why Bucky took him in the first place. He settles into one of the two chairs that flank a massive fireplace at Bucky’s gesture and watches him take the other.

“I can hear the wheels turnin’ in your head, Steve. I’m not gonna snap or something if you ask me anything.”

“How’d you get your memories back?” He starts with what he wants to know most first. Bucky sighs and meets his gaze before he speaks.

“I can read, punk.”

“Buck…”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Next question.”

“Why’d you take me?”

“Next question.”

“Dammit!” Steve feels anger rising and his fingers curl into fists on his lap as he leans forward to glare at Bucky. “You can’t just pass on every question I ask. I searched for _months_ , Buck and I know you were always a step ahead of us. I’ve waited for over seventy years and…” He trails off, swallowing down his words at the look on the other man’s face. It’s dark and Steve would swear on his mother’s grave that Bucky’s grey eyes were swirling with slivers of black as he stares at him, completely still before he blinks and takes a breath. His voice is quiet and Steve remembers when he used to get mad, it wasn’t the yelling that terrified him, it was when Bucky got quiet on him.

“You want to know the truth? Is that what you want, Stevie?” He couldn’t nod if he’d tried, he feels like he’s paralyzed under that stare. Doesn’t matter anyway, Bucky doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “I’ll start from the beginning so you can get the big picture. I saw the file they had on me and I know you did too, so I don’t have to tell you how I was captured, trained, and all of that, right?”

This time Steve does nod in a short abrupt motion.

“Good. So let me tell you the story that they didn’t write down.” The smile that flirts with Bucky’s mouth isn’t right and makes Steve’s gut twist in apprehension. “You’re special, Steve, always have been, but in some ways more so than others. Your ma never told you about your old man because she was running from him. I was a happy accident, or so I was told. I was made to ‘protect’ you and I did a damn fine job of it. But everything ends. After your ma died I tried so hard to keep my promise… I swear I did, but then the train happened. No longer could I watch your back, not when _he_ found me.”

Steve stares at Bucky, his lips parted with shock, the words pouring from the soldier making him feel like he’s back in the ice all over again, the stinging agony taking hold of his bones.

“He wanted to make me into a weapon and he did. He talked almost as much as Howard Stark in maddening circles and lightning in his hands. Steve, I tried so hard but he knew how to break me and he did. He told me once that he’d been so mad at Sarah for taking you away from him and it took him years to figure out what was cloaking you. When he found out it was who and not a what, well, you know how that ended. But instead of letting me die with you he warped me…”

Swallowing back the bile that rises in his throat, Steve doesn’t notice that his hands are shaking, but he does notice the way Bucky’s gaze is faraway and his hues are definitely not human anymore. He doesn’t know whether he wants to run or cry. He does neither, just listens with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Your ma knew from the get-go and she still had enough heart to show me kindness. That woman, Stevie, she was remarkable. See, there’s a reason the serum only worked on us. We’re not all that human.” Bucky’s hand motions to the fireplace and with a hiss like someone threw a lit match onto it, fire sprouts up from the logs. Steve stares into the flames with dread in his heart. “You always liked mythology when we were kids and I never could figure out why you’d wanna read that crap.” Bucky’s gaze focuses on Steve as he chuckles dryly and he shakes his head.

“Should have known you were extra special, hell, I always told everyone you were but even I didn’t know back then.”

“You’re special too, Bucky…” His voice is hoarse and his throat swallows reflexively.

“You have no idea.” The man stands and moves to the shelf pulling down a large, worn leather bound volume before moving back to Steve and it’s all he can do not to flinch when Bucky lays it in his lap. “But if you read this, it explains everything better than I can. I ain’t never been any good at spinnin’ a story, anyway.”

Bucky rests a hesitant hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezes it before he walks away leaving Steve to stare down at the book in his lap. He inhales sharply and exhales on a heavy sigh, confusion running rampant within the walls of his mind as he tries to process what he’d just been told. With a hand that trembles slightly he opens the journal and reads.

 

*

 

Steve jerks awake with a start, system on high-alert as he springs to his feet. His gaze sweeps the room unseeingly before blinking rapidly to clear his head as he gulps air into his lungs with every thump of his heart. Finding the room empty, he exhales loudly and glances down where the book must have slid off of his lap and onto the floor with the thud that woke him. Falling gracelessly back into the seat Steve takes inventory of his body, dragging hands over his face as the kinks from sleeping in a chair make themselves known. There’s a blanket pooled in the floor, the fire has long since burnt out, and the house is absolutely silent. Groaning, he slumps back and closes his eyes.

There was no chance that he’d been dreaming last night, then. Bucky had indeed kidnapped him. And the things he’d read… Well, he understands a lot more about himself (and Bucky) now. There were things when he was little that he’d never been able to explain, but now, he was getting the bigger picture and he was finding it difficult to be surprised. He’d always known that he was different. It sounds like any fairytale, but only this time he’s in the starring role. It goes something like this;

 

_An oracle, golden and fair denied her gifts and the Fates finding it blasphemous entwined her thread with that of Zeus. Once her womb was ripe he came down from Olympus and wooed the maiden. As planned, she found herself with child and Zeus being filled with excitement went to her. Once again she denied what the Fates had bestowed upon her, and the day she bore their child the God cursed his son and his heart filled with hatred._

_The boy grew in poverty, sickly and small, but hidden from his father. Hades, having learned of a simple human soul that could so affect his brother vowed to cherish it. In doing so he consorted with the Fates and they twisted together threads of loyalty and a love so deep that not even Zeus could unravel them should he try. They created a champion and Hades personally delivered their squalling masterpiece to earth. Soon they watched their work unfold as the boys were drawn together and they rejoiced._

_But Zeus having heard of his brother’s deception set out to destroy. And he succeeded. He separated his son from Hades’ abomination, even despite the God’s efforts to shape his nephew into a warrior having failed. Zeus tainted and frayed at the ropes bound by the Fates, molding Hades’ champion into something that rivaled the very Titans that he’d locked away himself. For he knew a war would sweep the lands and Heavens and he would not persevere. Old and powerless, he watched the events play out, his kingdom crumbling around him. And when his brother used the Fates’ very scissors to snip Zeus’ thread, he knew that he had failed despite his efforts._

_Hades quickly stood in his brother’s wake to control the damage done, but it was too much for the God and he went in seek of refuge. The Fates were left to watch their champion and Zeus’ son wander in search of each other, one seeking, the other running but desperately wanting to be found. In his exile and fear, Hades’ warrior learned of his true identity and what he must set out to do. He took the fruit offered, the knowledge, and the sanctuary. And he sought out the sun._

‘And he sought out the sun.’ Steve couldn’t get that last line out of his head. Was he the sun? He now knew that he was in fact the _son_ , but his heart didn’t feel bright anymore. And the fact that he was Al—the sound of a throat clearing makes him jump and glance around the edge of his chair towards the door.

Bucky stands braced easily against the doorframe, his arms folded over his chest, his feet bare, and his hair pulled back into a haphazard bun. He makes Steve’s aforementioned heart race. Steve swallows thickly suddenly feeling like his mouth is full of cotton.

“If you don’t get up and move around soon you’re gonna get stiff.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight in the morning.”

Steve frowns realizing that he must have slept longer than he’d initially thought. Turning back around, he leans down and gathers the blanket and book into his arms before standing. He can feel Bucky’s eyes boring into his back as he slides the volume back onto the shelf and folds the blanket, tossing it into the other chair. Lifting his arms over his head, he lets his muscles stretch and loosen their kinks before turning to face Bucky. He doesn’t miss the way his gaze has darkened and the minute tick in his jaw.

“You should go shower and I’ll slap some breakfast together.” Bucky doesn’t wait for a response as he pivots on his heels and disappears into the bowels of the house. Steve wonders how long it will take for him to get answers and how long he has to pretend that his hands aren’t itching to _touch_.

 

*

 

Surprisingly, he doesn’t have to wait long for either. After his shower he goes back to the kitchen and settles onto his stool from the night before. They eat in companionable silence but it isn’t until the last dish has been washed and put away that Bucky turns to Steve and shoots him a knowing look.

“Alright, I know you’re just dying, so lay it on me.”

For a minute a completely different scenario pops into Steve’s head and he has to school his thoughts and wade through the muck searching for the correct response. Bucky looks smug when Steve meets his gaze across the island. Steve rolls his eyes, ignores the way his cheeks warm up, and sighs.

“Pierce was my father?”

Bucky doesn’t quite flinch but his gaze narrows and his lips turn down into a frown. He nods sharply.

“Howard Stark… Was he Hades in the story?”

“Fury.” Steve’s eyes widen a fraction and he opens his mouth to speak but Bucky continues on. “Stark worked for him, sold his soul or something like it. Don’t know what he asked for, but I was the one that collected it.”

“But isn’t that ah—a demon’s job? You’re not a demon, Buck and that doesn’t make any sense if Pierce was supposedly Zeus. Hades was ruler of the Underworld.”

“None of it made sense, but the way I understood it is that they did a little role reversal. Pierce wanted to make Fury pay for trying to help hide you from him, so he took me and I wiped out anyone who helped Fury or got in Pierce’s way. Pierce was pissed that he wasn’t the golden boy anymore and his little brother was in the spotlight.”

Steve stares at Bucky trying to process the information and he suddenly hears Tony in the back of his mind snickering while he attempted to coerce him into watching ‘Little Nicky’. Do the rest of them know? Did they know this entire time?

“You’ll have to ask them that, but I wouldn’t doubt that. Howard’s son is too smart for his own good and Natalia is very close to Fury.”

He didn’t even realize that he’d spoken his concerns aloud until Bucky is answering him. And everything begins to click together in his head. Tasha and Barton (even Coulson) _were_ very fond of Fury and quick to jump-to when he barked an order. Tony was an enigma to Steve, though and he could never put his finger on what it was about him that rubbed him wrong. He’d shelve that for later. Had Fury created the Avengers to protect Steve while simultaneously gloating to Pierce that he’d shaped his son into his own little soldier? A thrill of anger courses through his veins making his teeth grind as he recalls the way Howard used to smirk at him when he saw him in the tights after a rally. Had he known the entire time? Of course he had. Everyone around him had been behind the curtains pulling his strings and making him dance. Had he ever made his own decision?

The warm grip on his shoulder makes him inhale sharply and his head snaps to the left where Bucky stands by his hip. Was that concern in his eyes? He didn’t deserve that, it had been Bucky that had fallen and been made into something irreparable. Before he even knows what he’s doing, Steve’s snaking his arms around the other man’s waist and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Bucky goes still against him and Steve only grips him tighter. It takes a good ninety seconds before Bucky’s arms tentatively return the gesture, but his posture is stiff as if he’s afraid of contact. Steve waits it out.

Bucky’s frame relaxes inch by inch and Steve sighs slowly. His lashes are wet and he’s getting a crick in his back from the angle he’s twisted but he doesn’t care. The revelations, the reunion, all of it pales in comparison to the sound of Bucky’s heart beating out a steady and strong beat beneath his ear. It’s a melody that has been confined to his dreams and Steve breathes easily for the first time since he woke up from the ice. He doesn’t care how or why, all he knows is that he’s home.

 

*

 

In the next month they create a routine; wake, eat, talk, eat, sleep. It’s hard at first and there’s arguing, raised voices, fists punched through plaster and mysteriously patched up and gone within hours. Steve gets used to the strange things. They learn one another all over again. Bucky tells him that he’s a monster and Steve’s just a little innocent girl. He likens them to Beauty and the Beast, but no matter how much Steve says it, Bucky doesn’t believe him when he tells him he’s perfect. They both have nightmares, screaming themselves awake and find when they accidentally fall asleep together on the couch that the terror lessens.

By the second month Bucky joins Steve in the room he’d been housed in. It’s the master bedroom and Steve coaxes Bucky to tell him where they are. ‘There’ is a safe house just inside of the Massachusetts state line and apparently it’s concealed by some sort of ‘magic’ (Steve _still_ isn’t a big believer, but he’s trying.) and will remain that way until an unknown date. Actually, Bucky jokingly tells him that he is in fact the woman in this story because he ate the fruit and he’s trapped here now. Steve rolls his eyes at him and chucks a piece of popcorn at his head, but inside his stomach flips for some reason.

On the first day of the third month, Steve wakes up with a metal arm draped heavily over his waist and Bucky’s morning wood snug against the swell of his ass. He knows the second Bucky wakes up because his frame goes utterly still and Steve snatches his hand to his stomach and doesn’t let him escape. That morning with the sun peeking through the curtains and casting rays of gold across their bed, they relearn each other. With impatient yet lazy hands they caress scarred and flawless skin alike. Mouths draw sighs from lungs, spinning them in the air where they’re chorused with gasps. It’s a slow and sensual reunion that quickly bleeds into the slap of sweat slick skin and vows confessed into open kisses. The only yelling there is that day is when Steve presses Bucky into the marble of the shower stall and fucks into him with deliberate snaps of his hips. He’d feel bad about it but Bucky cooks him dinner after then takes him back to bed. He doesn’t seem to mind.

That month is spent lost inside of their renewed passion with no one but the walls of the house acting as witness. Steve feels like he’s the fucking king of the world and doesn’t even care that the only time he tried to step farther than the back porch he’d been knocked onto his ass by an invisible barrier. (He’s starting to believe the stories.) He’s come to terms that his father was ancient and demented. He’s _coming_ to terms that Fury is the devil (that still makes him chuckle) and everyone he personally knows in this time has somehow been put there to protect him. (Minus Thor, he’d been a happy accident.) All in all, Steve is happy and is getting better at ignoring the insistent little tick in the back of his mind that’s counting down to something.

 

_Three months and two weeks in…_

 

Bucky is snoring lightly when Steve eases out of bed, replacing his spot with his pillow and leaning down to press a kiss to Bucky’s brow that’s slightly furrowed in his sleep, Steve’s lack of warmth making him snuffle before settling. With a fond and sleepy smile Steve pads into the bathroom. After taking care of his morning breath and bladder, he slips from the room, glancing at the lump Bucky makes under the covers once more before easing into the hall. He usually doesn’t cook, but he wants to surprise his other half, let him sleep in a while, and take it up to him. He avoids the squeaky stair and heads towards the kitchen, his mind coming fully online when he notices the lights already burning brightly out into the hall. His hands itch for his shield as he creeps on silent feet to peer around the doorway. What he sees stops him dead in his tracks.

There sitting in his usual spot at the island, back to the door is a man. He wears a dark emerald green tunic and black pants. His bare feet are settled comfortably upon the rungs of the stool and his hair is longer than Steve remembers it, loose and hiding his nape. Loki greets Steve like they’re old pals once he steps fully into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Captain, it has been quite a while, has it not? I trust you are well?”

Steve cautiously edges around the island, putting it between them and backs up to the sink, his gaze leveling on the Asgardian. He doesn’t speak at first, instead he watches as Loki gives him a warm and seemingly harmless smile, picks up a mug that has Thor’s face grinning up at Steve emblazoned on the side and takes a sip. After sitting it back down atop the counter he rolls his eyes and makes a gesture towards the coffee pot at Steve’s left hip.

“It isn’t poisoned, I promise.”

“How did you get in here? Better yet, how are you alive?”

“Ah, I see my darling brother hasn’t filled you in just yet.” Steve glares at him and crosses his arms over his chest not budging. “Oh fine, then! I shall regale you with the story of my resurrection. It was simply a ruse so that I would be free from my brother. But you see it backfired because his pesky little scientist figured it out. Her and that amusing and voluptuous intern of hers found a way to summon me. I am of a mind that they beseeched higher powers. Regardless, to quell this tale, Thor requested my help in the search of _you_.”

Steve arches a brow as on the inside his heart is beginning to thud loudly. They were looking for him and he hadn’t even sought a way to contact them. He feels like a heel. He turns away from Loki’s bemused expression to pour himself a mug of coffee. The Trickster continues.

“Now, imagine to my surprise when I followed your trail here. Sure, it appears as a normal, if somewhat decrepit dwelling on the outside but the sheer energy it must take to hold up that kind of cloaking spell… Even _I_ was marginally impressed. I must admit that the inside is much more to my tastes. It’s quite homey.”

“Get to the point.” Steve grits out as he turns back around to face his unwelcome guest. His fingers flex dangerously around his coffee mug and he takes a sip of the bitter liquid finding it perfect. The bastard.

“Such a grumpy soldier in the morning.” Loki flashes Steve a smirk, taking another drink of his coffee, only this time his mug is decorated by hopping, pink bunnies. “As I was saying, Thor and your fellow friends sent me in search of you. I was their only hope. It’s nice, to feel wanted for once. And now that I have accomplished my task, I would assume that the moment I report back they will descend like a flock of flying monkeys. This is your warning.”

“Why would you give me any kind of warning?”

“That is a very wise question, Steven. You see I have lost the only mother I knew, seen my biological father slain by my own hand, and been cast out by the one that raised me. Not to mention Thor. I had let him go, gave him a clear escape from my rakish ways, but he refused to return the favor. I have committed many dastardly deeds but he always looks past them…” Steve watches emotions play across the other man’s face before he wipes them away with a blink and meets Steve’s gaze head on. “Your fellow upstairs isn’t pure by any means and neither are you, but you remind me of Thor and me. Despite the evils of this world you cling together ignoring the wounds inflicted. I admire that.”

Loki drains his coffee and sits the mug quietly against the counter before getting lightly to his feet, his hands folding together calmly at his waist. He cants his head to the side and stares thoughtfully at Steve. Staying still under his observation is nothing new to the man.

“James is what he says, as are you. And the stories that you’ve read are true. Had I met him first I would have spotted it right away.”

“Spotted what, exactly?”

“He is a prince, a champion more accurately, cut from the cloth of the Old Ones. I’ve met a few of his relatives before, I do believe. Hideous rascals! But no fear, he is nothing like them because he is bound to your spirit. And you, Captain, you burn bright with lightning in your soul. You have two weeks remaining and I suggest you enjoy it. Better get started on that meal.” Loki winks at him and shimmers out of sight just as the floor creaks over Steve’s head alerting him that Bucky’s awake. He sucks in a breath and lets it out with a rush as he leans his elbows onto the island, his head dropping into his hands and a sudden pang of longing for the 1930’s when it was just him and Bucky jabbing him in the gut. When he drops his hands and glances up he’s greeted with Loki’s mug. It reads in annoyingly bright green text: TICK. TOCK. TIME WAITS FOR NO MAN.

 

*

 

Those two weeks pass by far too fast for Steve’s liking. He’d told Bucky about Loki, of course he had, and they’d spent that one day quietly and somewhat awkward. Steve was worried about what would happen _after_ their time was up and Bucky wouldn’t tell him what he was thinking. Not until that night anyway. He’d confessed that he had no direction and they’d talked until the sun rose about what they could do. Neither of them wanted to be far from the other and given their circumstances they weren’t sure how it would actually affect them.

It’s on a Sunday that all hell breaks loose.

Steve’s jarred from sleep by a hand held tightly around his mouth and a warm, solid body pressing him down into the mattress. Bucky whispers in his ear that there are six heavily armed agents in the yard, two on the roof, and three on the back porch. Steve nods as Bucky slowly slips his hand away and slides off the bed without so much as a rustle. He watches his best friend as he follows his lead and stands. With every garment Bucky pulls on _he_ disappears and the Winter Soldier takes his place. It would alarm Steve terribly but his virtuous morals are severely skewed; he finds his heart thundering, pulse racing, and cock hardening at the sight instead. He rubs a hand hard over his face to expel those dangerous thoughts and turns to get dressed himself. Bucky’s knowing and terrifyingly wicked smirk makes Steve grind his teeth.

Once they’re dressed and armed (Gods, but he misses his shield) they make their way silently down the stairs. They can’t get out unseen and Steve’s stomach is rolling with anticipation and a tiny inkling of fear. He won’t be held responsible for his actions if anyone lays a hand on Bucky. Just as they step onto the landing the back door flies open, banging into the wall and breaking the glass as it collides with the wall. Steve’s spine stiffens as a metal finger taps his hip and he glances at Bucky to see him nod back up the stairs. Shit. Natasha and Barton stand at the top of the stairs, gun and bow trained on Bucky. Tony in full armor followed by Thor and Sam burst into the foyer and effectively herd them towards the front door. Let him reiterate, _shit._

“Well, he certainly ain’t dead and judging by the state of the bed in the room I crashed into, he isn’t being held against his will. Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome…”

“Barton, lower your weapon.”

“Can’t do that, Captain.”

“What Birdbrain means to say is, Hi, honey, we’ve missed you. Why don’t you ever call or write?” Tony’s faceplate slides up to reveal his face and Steve doesn’t let any emotion show. Stark’s sporting a shiner, an unkempt beard, and dark circles under his eyes. Bucky’s finger twitches on the trigger of his weapon at ‘honey’.

“If you’d quit pointing guns at me and Bucky maybe I’d be more inclined to talk.”

“Steve, you and I both know that _that_ is not Bucky anymore.”

“Nat, if you value my friendship at all you will shut your mouth and put down your gun.”

“You first.”

Thor and Sam are the only ones to remain quiet opting to watch them (Bucky) intently instead. Steve curses loudly inside his head and as if Bucky can hear it the corner of his mouth jumps. He presses his metal shoulder into Steve’s right and he gets the hint inching them closer to the door. The others follow them wearily, weapons still drawn and expressions of distrust on their faces.

“If I open this door am I going to get shot?”

“Not at first…”

“Well, that’s not very reassuring.” Steve bites out at the red haired assassin that’s creeping down the stairs. Bucky’s gun may be aimed in the direction of Tony, Thor, and Sam but his gaze is trained on her.

“Who all’s out there?”

“Fury, Coulson, Hill, and a few others.”

“Banner?”

“We left him at home to babysit.” Clint’s response makes Thor scowl at the archer.

“Tell Fury to stand down and we’ll go outside.” Bucky’s voice is quiet and makes no room for negotiations.

Tony rolls his eyes but surprisingly does what he’s told. “Hey, Shack, Cap and Frosty here requests kindly that you stand down and they’ll show their pretty faces.” The mechanics in Bucky’s arm recalibrate as his fingers curl inward making Tony swallow thickly. It takes all of three seconds for Fury to bark out an order to the Avengers and Tony waves grandly at them. “You have the floor.”

Bucky maneuvers himself between Steve and the front door using his metal hand to unlock and open the door. Back to back, they edge out onto the front porch. Steve waits until the others follow them out and fans out around them until he turns, pressed shoulder to shoulder with Bucky to take in the rest of the rescue party. Coulson and Hill flank Fury and the other three agents Steve doesn’t recognize are staggered behind them. They all have their weapons raised and aimed at him and Bucky. Fury is the only one that has empty hands.

“Well, this has been an eventful morning.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Rogers, did we wake you?”

Steve glares at the man and watches Natasha ease out into the yard with Barton on her heels. “Actually, yes Sir, you did. So if I seem a little upset at the sudden appearance of company, you can blame my lack of morning coffee.” That earns him a very quiet snort from Bucky and Steve can’t help the impish smirk that curves his lips. Natasha’s brow furrows in confusion for a split second before it’s gone.

“I’ll gladly buy you a cup of coffee if you and your friend would drop your weapons and come with us.”

“We’re not going anywhere.”

It all happens so fast that Steve’s mind packs its bags and says ‘screw this shit’ and leaves, abandoning him with his old pal adrenaline.

When Bucky grits out his statement he steps forward and shifts so that he’s shielding Steve and Steve watches as one of the unknown agents aims for Bucky’s head. He doesn’t think, he only _acts_. Grabbing Bucky’s metal wrist he uses his weight and a knee in his leg to shove him down to his knees, firing at the agent before the man can even squeeze the trigger. The agent goes down and chaos erupts. Bucky springs to his feet and leaps from the porch heading straight for Natasha. Steve sees the fear that freezes her for a breath before Barton fires at Bucky. Steve yells and aims at the archer getting off a single shot before something hard slams into him from the right. He struggles to fight off his attacker but there’s a pinch on his neck and time slows to a crawl. The last thing he sees is Bucky still stalking towards Nat with an arrow protruding from his thigh and Fury on his heels, and then it’s lights out.

 

*

 

When Steve wakes up this time he’s alone in what appears to be a hospital room. He’s foggy and tired but he’d bet his shield that he’s on the medical floor of Stark’s tower. Sitting up slowly, he frowns down at the IV attached to him, yanking it out before sliding out of the bed. He wobbles and his head swims but large hands steady him and help lower him back to the bed. Huffing in annoyance he jerks his arm petulantly out of Fury’s grip and turns a glare onto the man standing next to him. Fury sighs and drags the only chair in the room over, pressing a button on one of the machines making it go blessedly quiet before lowering himself into his acquired seat.

“Where’s Bucky?”

“You know, when I made him I didn’t plan far enough ahead to really see the error of my ways. And those sweet little, crazy ladies never informed me that the bond went _both_ ways.”

“Bucky isn’t expendable.”

“No, he isn’t. So thank you for doing your damndest to protect him like he did for you.”

“Where is he?”

“Cool your jets, he’s a couple rooms over getting stitched up.”

“Is he okay?!”

“Barton shot him in the thigh then Tony shot him with a tranq. He’ll be fine.”

“Did he hurt anyone?” Steve stares right at Fury when the man meets his gaze as if to weigh him.

“He clipped Natasha’s thigh with a bullet and gave Sam a black eye and busted lip, but otherwise no.”

“The agent I shot? Barton?”

“Tanner’s on vacation with a flesh wound. And you missed Clint.”

“He’s dead?”

“They had to dig the bullet out of his shoulder but he’ll live. I just wouldn’t expect a Christmas card this year.”

Steve sighs in relief, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer. He could have killed him, any of them, and he wouldn’t really have thought twice about it. He _wants_ to regret it, to feel remorse that he’s willing to kill for Bucky, but he doesn’t.

“You know your mother’s real name wasn’t Sarah when I first met her. She went by Persephone… didn’t change it till after she met Pierce.” Steve’s hand falls back to his lap and he watches Fury, unsure if he’s to be believed. “I loved her and when my idiot brother found out he courted her right out from under me.”

“But that’s not what the book said.”

Nick snorts and rolls his eyes. “Those things are edited to Crete and back. Look, it was all a long time ago and you and Barnes were just pawns.” He raises a hand to stop Steve from interrupting. “ _Were_ being the operative word, there. Now that you’ve fought and lost, rose from the rubble and won the war, it’s time that you step up. More things are going to come and don’t ask because I’m not at liberty to tell, but you and Barnes with this team are the only hope.”

“So Bucky is heir to the throne and I get the glory because of my mother?”

“Now you’re getting it. You have to understand that my line… we don’t enjoy the spotlight. But Bucky loves you and it isn’t just because of your back-story; it’s because of who you have grown to be. Don’t doubt that bond on the dark days, Rogers, you’re his sun.”

With that Fury stands and returns his chair to the corner and walks to the door. Steve stops him with a question, though.

“He’s not my brother is he?”

Fury _laughs_ and turns to look at him making a small smile tug at his lips. “No, he isn’t. I had… help in making him and that’s all I’ve got to say about that.”

“Nat and Aphrodite, Clint and Athena?”

“You’re too smart for your own good, kid.” Fury casts him a smirk then leaves the way he came. 

When Steve’s allowed to leave a few hours after that, he goes in search of Bucky. He isn’t where Fury told him he’d be and Steve feels like his nerves are on fire the longer he’s unaware of Bucky’s location. He’s just stepping into the elevator to head up to his apartment when Thor stops the doors from sliding closed and slips between them. He offers Steve a sincere smile and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“I trust you are feeling well, now?”

“Still a little off from the effects of that tranq but I’m alright.”

“Good, good. I was hoping that I would get the opportunity to speak with you in private.”

“Sure, I’m all ears.”

“I only wanted to apologize on Loki’s behalf. He showed me your encounter and he was rather blunt. I know that it must have been a shock to see him alive and to have him divulge so much personal information…” Thor trails off and Steve meets his earnest gaze with a shrug.

“He didn’t try to kill me and he was surprisingly polite. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure? He is a mischievous devil at times and rarely expresses his true emotions. If there is any alt between you, I would request that you tell me so I can right it.”

“No, I’m serious, Thor. It’s okay. He seemed… different somehow. I think he mourned you as much as you did him. Don’t give up on him.”

“I would never.” It sounds more like an oath than a mere reply and Steve wonders if he sounds like that when he talks about Bucky. He suddenly wonders if Thor and Loki aren’t a little closer than expected… He quickly shakes off that thought and turns his attention back to his friend.

“You haven’t seen Bucky anywhere around have you? Fury said he was getting stitched up but I couldn’t find him.”

“Sgt. Barnes is in your apartment with Agent Romanova, Sir.”  

Thor smiles up at the ceiling and Steve blinks owlishly at his reflection in the chrome doors. He’d forgotten completely about Tony’s AI.

“Ah, thanks, Jarvis.”

“You are most welcome, Captain Rogers.”

Seconds later the lift stops letting Thor off and Steve nods a farewell, anxious to get up to his floor to see Bucky. Not a minute passes before he pushes off the wall and into the hall. Quiet feet carry him to his door and it clicks open before he can even reach for the knob.

“Oh good, you’re here. Maybe you can make him stop whining.” Nat greets him with a smirk and he glances down at her bandaged thigh but she tsk’s him. “Later, he’s getting restless and I have my own cranky male to deal with. Oh, and Tony said that when you’re up for it go see him. I think he wants to apologize or grovel.” She brushes past him and is gone before Steve even steps into his apartment. When he does he pauses at the sight that he’s presented with. Bucky is stretched out on his couch like he belongs there (which he does), the remote balanced on his stomach, and his eyes closed.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“You okay?”

“Well, the hole your buddy put in my thigh is healing nicely and the effects of that tranq Stark hit me with is fucking with my head, but hey, I’m used to that.”

Steve strides over and sinks into the floor next to Bucky’s hip and bands an arm across his waist. Bucky’s eyes crack open and he slumps further down with a wince and meets Steve’s gaze. “They gave me the same thing, it’ll wear off. And I’m so sorry about that whole spectacle they made. They thought they were doing the right thing.” Bucky waves him off with a slow smile and a pat on his forearm with the remote.

“Natal—Natasha already explained shit. And so did that Falcon guy. I’ve gotta stop beating him senseless.”

“Yeah, that’d probably be good for his health… Did you talk to Fury?”

“He stopped by… When I’m better I’m only allowed to go out on foreign assignments. He said I’m not ready to join the team yet.” For all that Bucky can be ferocious and deadly, right then he looks like a four year old who’s been sent to bed without ice cream. Steve bites back a smile and leans in to rest his forehead against Bucky’s side.

“I agree...”

“Figured you would, punk.”

“You gonna stay with me then?”

 Bucky’s eyes open and he stares at Steve until the blond glances up to meet his gaze. His eyes swirl with threads of deep crimson and Steve would swear that he can feel a phantom caress whisper down his spine even though both of Bucky’s hands are visible. He can’t stop the smile that curves his lips anymore, and he presses closer to bless the man’s lips with a kiss. Steve doesn’t need any more answer than the way warm fingers sink into his hair to hold him close. He might be Bucky’s sun but Bucky is his universe and he thinks they’re both finally _home._

 

*

 

_And as it was foretold, the Old Ones whom were once thought immortal aged and faded away. Like the stars, they shone brightly and terribly in their birth, waging wars across the night sky during their eons, but burning out one by one. The tales continue on as their heirs take their rightful places upon Olympus and will be written with each new weave._

_But as for one tale it shall never end, for the Champion has reclaimed his Sun and they burn brighter than all of creation._

 

_FIN._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And there you have it! I know it was a little shorter than usual but I didn't want to dig too deep, or it would have turned into another monster. (Like Alice and her Tin Man!) 
> 
> I also made a [mix](http://8tracks.com/colorofasoul/lies)
> 
> Anywho, I have a few things bubbling in my cauldron, so we'll see what escapes next. Until then, don't forget not to stare directly into Bucky's eyes and to pick up some more pop tarts for Thor. Later, monsters.


End file.
